


you're mine

by adelheid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Possessive Jon Snow, Post Season 8, Sexual Content, Wildling Jon Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 16:26:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18996274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelheid/pseuds/adelheid
Summary: post 8x06. One day, he'll ask for her to come with him, to take her place next to him. No, he won't ask. He'll just steal her.





	you're mine

**Author's Note:**

> just a little something after that underwhelming finale

Sometimes she thinks these nights are just fragments of a dream - one long tortuous dream - and one day she'll wake up. And he won't come anymore.

But tonight he's come. It's tradition.

His hair is longer each year. There are four braids in it now - four years since exile. 

He waits for her in her chambers, never tells her how manages to circumvent guards, doors, keys. 

He's always sitting by the fire, a stern paternal figure, hands folded sadly, gaze distant.

The first time he came, she was terrified and overjoyed. She thought something had happened, something to persuade him to return. 

She had not even dreamt that he had come for something else -  

Well, no one _would_.

Jon the Wildling broods even worse than Jon Snow. But there is some kind of wry humor in his posture.

The first time he came, she embraced him sisterly and tried to call for food and drink, but he stopped her with a press of his thumb in the middle of her palm.

"I don't have long, Sansa. Just a few hours." 

"But - but surely you're staying?"

"No." 

"Why not?"

"It's only been a year. What kind of penance is that?"

"A year is enough for me," she argued, clutching his arm. "You belong home. All of you do, I can't believe I let any of you leave Winterfell -"

"Sansa." Her name on his tongue was foreign this time. " I only have a few hours."

She noticed something then; her cousin-brother no longer had that haunted, pained look in his eye. She thought, _he's started to forgive himself about the Queen._

But now Sansa knows better. She knows he will never forgive himself.

Rather, he has stopped lying to himself.

"A few hours to do what?" she asked that first time, naively. 

Jon stared at her. "To be with you."

"It doesn't have to be hours - stay longer." 

"I don't deserve you,  I don't deserve this," he said, not answering, yet answering. He tipped her chin up and ran his thumb along her jaw.

Sansa froze. 

"Jon, I -"

"But I'm going to take it anyway."

Jon the Wildling is a different breed. She learned it that night when he grabbed her head and kissed her mouth hotly, covering hers, a sloppy selfish kiss. 

She leaned into him, into the kiss, almost without wanting to, but wanting to, desperately.  She had not been touched in forever, and never like this.

Her back hit the wall behind her. Her hands came round his shoulders for something to hold onto, and his hands squeezed her wait and dragged one of her knees up, hitching her skirt, wanting to feel the skin underneath.

Sansa moaned into the kiss.

Jon broke away roughly, looking at her with dark, irreverent eyes. 

She breathed loudly. Words were hard to come by. "I - why did you stop?" 

"To make sure you want to."

She swallowed. "I want to."

"What do you want?"

Sansa said it like a revelation. "You."  

Jon groaned. He was drunk on it, he wanted to hear it again and again as he kissed down her throat and freed each breast from her corset, despite her protestations.

Later, when they were lying naked next to each other, he explained it to her, the wildling way.

He had stolen her. 

He'd stolen groans and curses from her as he pinned her down and made her come against his mouth until his thirst was sated. He'd stolen her maidenhead a second time when he sank into her and kept a punishing slow pace, making sure she craved more and more, and then going too fast for her to even say his name or feel anything besides _him, him, him,_ as he erased all trace of other men, if there ever was any. 

He'd wed her in the wildling way, with a kind of dreaded, singular determination, but she wouldn't find this out until the second year he came. 

Tonight she knows she is meeting her husband. She hates him a little, hates his selfish nobility, hates the way he keeps punishing himself _and_ her. Hates the true North inside his veins. 

But as he keeps telling her, _this way you're both the queen and mine._

The words are intoxicating. 

She whispers them at night, waiting each year for his return. 

She finds him by the fire tonight, as always. 

"That's a pretty dress." He stares at the twin wolves on her chest. "I want you to keep it on when I make you cry out for the gods." 

She folds her arms. "You've grown rather impertinent."

Jon smiles a wry smile. "Give a man leave be, once a year."

"I would if you stayed."

"You know I can't."

Sansa bites her lip. She looks into the fire and twists her fingers. 

"What's wrong?"

He can always sense when she is troubled. 

"Oh, nothing. I just have one night to spend with an ungrateful, absent husband."

"Sansa, what else -"

"I am to marry. Someone else. My people demand it."

She never thought she'd be afraid of Jon. She isn't, even now. But she ought to be, because his face has darkened worse than night.

"What?"

"It's been almost four years now. The Northerners want an heir. They're starting to talk. They wonder why I keep opposing."

His voice is harsh, yet plaintive. The lone wolf, crying out for his pack. "You're _mine_."

Sansa blushes despite herself.

"Try telling _them_ that."

"I intend to."

"Jon, if you came back home, there would be no argument, we could marry like cousins -"

"We _are_ married."

He drags her towards him, cups her cheeks. 

"I can't come back. But I won't let you marry anyone else, I promise."

She looks up at him longingly. "This can't go on forever."

But it will, for one more night.

Jon kisses her and silences her pleas. 

She hates this Northern husband, even as he unravels her corset, even as he kisses her bare shoulder, even as he says he's sorry for what he's doing, for what he'll _do_. 

She hates him as she cries out his name, holding him to her one last time before he has to disappear into the night.

"This is our bed," he whispers against her ear, "and it'll be ours alone." 

Jon the Wildling is different; his threats and promises carry more weight. 

He's the King Beyond the Wall now. He won't say it. He doesn't have to. 

She shivers as she gazes into the true north of his eyes. 

"Do you understand?"

She nods. 

One day, he'll ask for her to come with him, to take her place next to him.

No, he won't ask.

He'll just steal her. 

The Wildlings already know their queen.

He's giving her more time in the land of the shackled because he loves her too much.

Because she knows she loves this side of the Wall better.

Sansa watches him go.

Perhaps this is how it's meant to be. Like the sun and the moon, neither can be a part of the other's world.

But eventually, light will obscure light, and the eclipse will come.

And the Queen in the North will be ready to become a constellation. 

 


End file.
